


Paradise, Lost

by scibher



Series: Any time, any place [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Ancient Rome, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-07 04:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scibher/pseuds/scibher
Summary: 68 AD. Lucifer is an artist favored by the Emperor Nero. Michael is a General assigned to protect him.Each era brings its own difficulties. Some more than others.





	1. Purgatorio

_Men che dramma_  
  
_di sangue m'è rimaso, che non tremi;_

_conosco i segni de l'antica fiamma._

 

_*_

 

_(Less than a drop of blood remains in me that does not tremble; I recognize the signals of the ancient flame.)_

 

Michael walked slowly down the dusty streets of Rome, not wanting to overheat. Late April was hot enough as it was- in the armor, he felt as though he would collapse. A walk from his dwelling to the outskirts of Rome would have been laughable to him just a few years back, no matter the temperature. He had marched to foreign lands in his armor- had marched hour upon hour, mile upon mile, until he had reached the battlefield.

But it had been some time since he’d been in war.

The soldiers were waiting in the atrium of the house, playing checkers on the floor. They didn’t see him as he approached- their shouts and laughter drowned out his footsteps. No doubt the cups of wine dotted around them had something to do with it. Michael rolled his eyes when he saw them, withdrawing his gladius sword. When he was close enough he held it to the closest soldier’s throat.

“You’re lucky I’m friend, not foe,” he said. The two other soldiers scrambled up. The third stayed still.

“Is that right?” one asked hotly, eyes darting to his friend. A terrible tension- one he didn’t quite understand- came into the room.

“It is,” he said eventually, putting his sword back in his sheath. The third soldier stood up, turning to face him.

“The Emperor has decided only one soldier needs to be present,” he said after a few moments of silence. “He believes your talents would be better served elsewhere.”

“Well, I would hope so,” one of them said rudely, before gathering his checkers off the floor.

“Indeed. You can play games and drink anywhere.”

“And why you? Why a General?” the third one asked while the other two glared. “I would have thought you have other jobs.”

“This is important to the Emperor,” Michael said, shuffling slightly. In a subtle, unseen movement, he lifted his tunic slightly off his skin and released it, cooling him slightly. “He needs someone halfway competent. For a start, you should be in the room _with_ him, rather than here.”

“Why? In case someone sneaks in to attack him while he paints his pretty pictures?”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t see why that would happen.”

“He’s painting those ‘pretty pictures’ on the orders of the Emperor,” Michael reminded them, injecting heat into his words. “And the Emperor has enemies everywhere.”

One of them let out a small laugh. None of them said anything. Michael looked at them steadily, not letting his discomfort show on his face.

“You’re dismissed,” he said uncertainly, breaking the sticky silence. They left without speaking, breaking into low murmurs once they were outside.

He went looking for the artist after they left, hand on the hilt of his sword. Who knew what kinds of people would be able to sneak past the previous guards. Thieves. Murderers. People who wanted to steal paint.

He partially agreed with the other soldiers- no artist needed such formal protection. He wasn’t exactly painting anything groundbreaking- Michael had seen one of his works before. It was nice, sure, but he couldn’t see anything worthy of enchanting the Emperor so much.

He knocked softly on doors as he walked through the house, his caligae making pattering noises on the floor. It seemed the further he walked into the house, the cooler the air was. The house was drowning in roses arranged in vases, large and small, on low tables dotted in the hallways. He knew they were gifts to the artists, given by aristocrats and others with too much money, all dizzy with the hedonism and decadence of the age. Like the Emperor they were all too pleased to bestow gifts and patronage on a select few people.

Eventually a quiet response came, and he knocked again before entering. He grimaced at the large canvas the artist was working on, before politely nodding at the man watching him, paintbrush in hand.

“Lucius, right?”

The artist turned away. “Not quite.” He continued making small brushes on the lion’s mane he was painting. “Lucifer.”

Michael nodded, glancing up at the canvas every so often. “I’m Michael.”

This was acknowledged with a nod. Lucifer turned to glance at him.

“Come closer,” he said, pointing to a chair close to the canvas. “Sit.”

Michael did what he asked. He could see Lucifer’s face from this angle- all cheekbones, tan, golden curls and ice-blue eyes. Maybe it was the artist himself that had enchanted the Emperor so much. He had, apparently, found the artist during his visit to Greece for the Olympics (always ‘ _found_ ,’ when he talked about their encounter- never ‘ _met,_ ’ as though Lucifer had been an artefact, buried in the ground, waiting to be discovered). If the gods sent one who was so much one of their own- _sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat_ , such eyes, such hands, such looks- who could simply leave him there, instead of doing everything in one’s earthly powers to make him immortal? To give him money and cloth of gold and houses in the manner of the old Greeks laying sacrifices at the altars of their gods; to give him paints and hang his work in palaces in the hope that they would remain, with a small piece of the painter's soul, long after the Emperor and Rome and the painter himself were buried.

“I hear you’re from Athens,” Michael said.

“I am.”

“Is it true the Emperor asked you to move here when he saw your work?”

“Not so much ‘asked’ as ‘commanded.’ Not that I should expect much else from a tyrant.”

Michael was stunned. He rose slowly to his feet.

“Are you _aware,_ ” he began. “That you’re speaking with one of the Emperor’s generals?”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Lucifer murmured, leaning in close to the canvas and not even glancing his way. “Sit back down.”

Michael did, reluctantly.

“And what do you have to say for yourself?” he asked. Lucifer didn’t say anything for a while. Just kept on brushing slowly at the painting. When he turned to look at Michael, there was no fear in his eyes. No sign he was worried that Michael would unsheathe his sword and end his life right there.

Not that he would. But Lucifer shouldn’t know that.

“Why, everyone knows it,” he said simply. He sounded surprised. “Even the other guards agree. Where are they? Still here?”

“I sent them away.”

“That wasn’t very nice of you,” Lucifer said, though he didn’t sound too bothered. He put down his paintbrush and went to a small table, pouring wine into two cups. “Was it because they’re loyal to the one in Spain?”

Michael stared at him, mouth drying. An artist shouldn’t know what Lucifer seemed to. The Emperor wasn’t supposed to have challengers, or supporters to those challengers- certainly not within his own military.

“You’re not supposed to know that,” Michael said bluntly. Lucifer blinked at him, passing him the wine cup.

“I know a lot of things I’m not supposed to.” He sipped from his own cup before setting it down. “I know that your glorious Emperor Nero had his own mother murdered. I know he set fire to his own city-”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michael spat, jumping to his feet with surprising speed.

“Don’t I?” Lucifer said, a slight frown gracing his features- whether from anger or concentration, Michael couldn’t tell. His lack of anger in response made him swallow, try to slow his furiously pumping heart.

“No.”

Lucifer didn’t reply, just leaving Michael standing with the wine cup in his hand. He drank deeply. He wished it was water.

Despite his own bursts of anger and Lucifer’s words, which skirted close to treason, he couldn’t help but be glad to be there, to send away those other guards. A phrase of Virgil’s pounded in his mind as he stood in the presence of this artist, whose very feet created hallowed ground- _procul, O procul este, profani!_ Away, away, unholy ones.

“And would you rather be Emperor?” he asked, leaning on the wall. He could envision the statues made in his honor. He couldn’t, however, imagine many soldiers following the orders of a painter. “Because that’s what’s wrong with Rome. Everyone wants to be Emperor. Every Senator would cut the throat of his leader if he could get away with it-”

“Just look at Caesar.”

“Exactly. No one will ever truly be loyal to the Emperor when they consider themselves a God. No one _can_ be truly loyal when there’s something they consider greater than their leader, and their citizenship of their own country.”

Lucifer snorted. “You sound like the people throwing those other people to lions. Or setting them on fire.”

“What people?”

“You know. The ones that worship that criminal.”

Michael frowned. Lucifer’s mouth twisted as he cleaned his brush on a cloth thrown over his shoulder.

“You know. The one that they say rose from dead. They drink his blood. You know who I’m talking about.”

“Christians.”

“That’s them. Actually,” he continued, blue eyes widening. A smile spread across his face. “That would be _something,_ wouldn’t it?” He gestured excitedly to the gladiator at the forefront of the painting, his back facing the viewer. “I just give him some black hair coming out of his helmet, give his cloak that nice gold trim yours has…” he dipped his paintbrush into white paint, and painted a small, discrete fish symbol near the corner of the scarlet cloak.

Michael’s jaw clenched. He straightened up, vowing to himself to remain still and silent until the damned artist dismissed him.

It took a while for Lucifer to notice his stoic pose.

“Oh, no,” he said, quickly dabbling in the red paint and brushing over the symbol. “I was only joking, Michael. I wouldn’t do that.”

Michael’s face softened. He stayed still, however.

“Really,” Lucifer insisted, offering him a small smile as his brush returned to the lion’s mane. “That’s something I’ll credit your Emperor for, though. Art and artists actually mean something because of him.”

Michael gave a small nod.

“I won’t make him look anything like you,” Lucifer said. “Though I’ll need to use you sometime, for something.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know. Here you all seem to exercise to serve Rome in a war.” He looked him up and down briefly, before returning to the painting in front of him. “Back in Greece it was more for the glory of the gods. Not just Ares, you understand. Aphrodite, too. I think you’d be a good muse if I wanted to paint a harmony of those two philosophies."

His eyes widened, darting to the floor to avoid Lucifer’s gaze.

Lucifer laughed, clearly able to understand his sudden embarrassment.

“I’m done for the day,” he said cheerfully, setting down the brush and picking up the wine. “You can leave, if you like. But I’m working on something tomorrow,” he said quickly, as Michael began to walk to the door. “Something private, but still. I’ll need your… protection.”

Michael turned back to look at him.

“You have it, of course.”

“Good. Thank you. Wear something lighter- you look like you’re going to overheat.”

“I’ve marched miles in armor.”

Lucifer just rolled his eyes. “Tomorrow evening. In my city dwelling.”

“People are living on top of each other because they can’t afford rent, and you have two houses within a few miles of each other?” Michael asked incredulously. Lucifer smiled, stepping towards him.

“Like I said, Michael- artists mean something under your tyrant.”

He slipped past him, and when Michael turned to leave he dug his hands into his shoulders- pitiful, compared to Michael’s strength, but he stilled.

“You can’t leave until you tell me what you think,” Lucifer said. His slender, paint-stained fingers were spread on Michael’s shoulders.

Michael assessed the painting. Without Lucifer in the way, and facing it directly, he could see it in its full glory. The gladiator was reaching for his sword- like Michael, he was left-handed. The lion in front of him was roaring. The crowds of the Amphitheatre were roaring, arms in the air.

“It’s good,” he said. Not good enough for the amount the Emperor was paying, but he wasn’t going to say that.

Lucifer was so close he could _hear_ him smile. Then he moved away, and Michael spun to see him turning a corner, smile still on his face.

“See you tomorrow, Michael."

“See you.”

He stood there for a few moments, simply taking pause in the wake of his presence. It took him a while to gather the will to begin his solitary march back to the city.


	2. Paradiso

_Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda._

 

*

 

_(A great flame follows a little spark)_

 

Michael woke to the sound of a cithara, nimble fingers coaxing light sounds downstairs. Thirty minutes later, when he was washed and dressed, it was still being played.

“ _Salve,_ ” the player said as he entered the dining room. The player had set out bread and honey for him to eat.

“ _Salve._ ” Michael sat down. The player shared his apartment and paid an eighth of the rent. Michael paid the rest. It was an arrangement that most would have considered outrageous, dishonorable, exploitative- but the man was a recently freed slave and didn’t yet have a job that paid well enough to pay half of the rent for their rather humble apartment. That was the harsh irony of Rome, Michael thought, as he tore his bread and dipped it in the honey. There was nowhere else where one could earn as much money as they could here with the right job, but there was nowhere else more impossible to live to find that job.

So, Michael took in freedmen, paying more than his share of the rent and taking in another freedman when they got a job, or found a wife, or otherwise moved on. It was easy enough to manage with his wage. He didn’t demand anything in return, though the freedmen would usually cook often, sew his clothes if he tore them. This one- Terentius- was particularly talented at shaving. He shaved Michael for free each morning, something that would cost him otherwise.

His only current duty was protecting Lucifer. As he didn’t know what time to show up, he sat in his room after breakfast and a shave, sharpening his sword and reading.

Five hours past midday a note came from Lucifer, the messenger’s hair damp with sweat and breathing labored. Michael tipped him generously and was out the door as soon as he read it, the note with its directions to clutched in one hand, a freshly baked loaf he picked up along the way in the other. The man selling them had given it to him for free, recognizing his embroidered purple toga for what it was- the leisurewear of a General.

Lucifer let him in immediately, smiling when he saw him. “Michael,” he said warmly. “You’re not in your armor.”

“You told me not to be,” he said, handing him the bread. Lucifer laughed.

“I did indeed.”

The bread was shelved, and then he was taken by the hand and led outside. “Let’s walk,” he said, and Michael fell into the same meandering pace beside him.

“Did you live here during the fire?” Lucifer asked after a while.

“I did.”

He gave a small hum. Michael glanced at him. He wondered what he was thinking.

“Is it true the Emperor sang while it burned?”

“What? No. No, I was with him when he found out, and when he travelled back. He wasn’t singing, that’s for sure.”

“What was he doing?”

“Worrying. Aloud.”

“About?”

Michael blinked a few times. Lucifer’s eyes were on him. As they came to a hole in the road, he laced an arm around his waist, guiding him around it.

“Rome,” he said. “The people. Their houses. The food supplies.”

Lucifer snorted. “His palace.”

“Yes. That, too.”

“Who he could blame it all on.”

Michael glanced at him. “I don’t believe he ordered it.”

“Then who started it?”

“That doesn’t matter. I believe it was an accident.”

“You don’t believe it was the Christians? Isn’t that who the Emperor blamed?”

“The Emperor is not infallible,” Michael said simply. Lucifer laughed.

“No?” He smiled, nudging him slightly. “I’m surprised to hear you say that, _General_.”

“You shouldn’t be. The more Emperors try to turn themselves into a god, the more likely it is that they’ll be murdered. A fire of such a scale could have made him the next Caligula. He directed people’s anger towards someone else. It’s understandable.”

“I’m not sure the Christians would agree.”

“They wouldn’t,” Michael said with a sigh.

Lucifer turned his face up to the sun as they walked, the roads around them getting quieter as the center was left further and further behind them. It was beginning to go down, the light strengthening as though in protest of its demise. It bathed him, his skin and hair turning golden, the shadows and angles of his face becoming more prominent. Michael couldn’t look away. When Lucifer slowed his pace to a pause, it took him a few seconds to look away and realize why.

Michael swore under his breath. The rotting corpse of a lion was in their way.

“By the gods,” Lucifer murmured. “Why is this here?”

Michael didn’t respond. He withdrew his sword instead, pushing Lucifer behind him gently as he turned, watching for any movement, any sign this was an ambush. He could hear Lucifer’s breath in his ear, steady and unworried. Once he was sure they were safe he let go of him, putting his sword back in his sheath but keeping his hand on the hilt.

“ _For_ the gods, I imagine,” Michael said darkly as Lucifer crouched beside it. “There’s a temple not too far from here. Probably died on the way, or whoever was bringing it got tired.”

 “It’s a pretty pathetic sacrifice,” Lucifer said, picking up the dead lion’s tail and letting it thump back down. “It’s so old.” He ran a hand through its mane curiously, as though he was combing it. “Are all manes this tangled and coarse? I’ll have to add some chaos to the one I’m painting.”

Michael let him keep examining the body with morbid curiosity for a few minutes more, before clearing his throat. “Come on. You could get sick.”

They began to walk back to Lucifer’s home, so he could wash his hands. Lucifer directed them along a different route.

“I heard you share your dwelling with freedmen,” he said conversationally. Michael nodded.

“I do, yes.”

“That’s odd.”

“They need somewhere to stay, and I have room,” Michael explained. “I don’t see how it’s odd.”

“Do they pay half the rent?”

“Less.”

“Then it’s odd,” Lucifer said definitively. “What does your wife think? Do you have a wife?”

Michael shook his head.

“No? Why not?”

“That’s not the life for me,” he said simply. “And it’s not odd to share my apartment with freedmen. I get paid far more than I need, and don’t need a lot of space. I’m not paying anything I can’t afford. I get company and favors out of it, anyway.”

Lucifer’s eyebrows shot up until they were hidden in his curls. “’Favors?’” he repeated. “What kind of favors?”

Did Michael detect a hint of jealousy in his words? He glanced at him. Surely he didn’t think that Michael would… A lesser man would use the freedmen for what Lucifer was thinking, of course. Lesser men did. But not Michael.

“They sometimes make meals. Clean the house. That type of thing.”

“I see.”

They passed a lot where an apartment had once been, the charred skeleton of it still standing. Lucifer’s mouth twisted.

“A comparison to Caligula wouldn’t stray far from the truth,” he said lowly. “Or Caesar. Tyrants. All of them.”

“This again?” Michael asked, exasperated. “It’s strange, I think, that the rulers smeared as tyrants are usually given that name by Senate and the wealthy who bury their good deeds and exaggerate their evils, while those so-called tyrants are revered by the poorest in their land. Athens is a free city, isn’t it? What exactly has the Emperor done in the short time you’ve lived here for you to hate him so?”

Lucifer glowered ahead of them as they walked, as though Nero himself was standing there. “When he met me, he said my works had been sent down from the gods. Would you agree?”

Michael swallowed. He didn’t want to offend him, but he didn’t want to lie. “Your- you- you paint very well-”

“But do you agree?” Lucifer repeated.

“Everything is a gift from the heavens in one way or another.”

“That’s a no,” Lucifer said. Michael winced before, to his surprise, Lucifer turned and grinned.

“No need to look so worried, Michael. I agree with you. The work you saw yesterday, with the lion and the gladiator? Sub-par. Good, yes, but not great. Not godly. What Nero saw back in Athens- well. The judges for the Olympic Games made him the winner of every game he competed in, so he was feeling quite generous. Otherwise I imagine I would have been killed.”

“Why would he do that?” Michael asked in surprise.

“Like I said, he’s a tyrant. He’s also self-obsessed. He doesn’t want to see truly great artwork- he wants to see work that he knows he could replicate, and have his be the better of the two,” Lucifer said. “He would have a true artist killed.”

“So your work…”

“I make it a lot worse than it would otherwise be. Good enough to keep the money coming in, bad enough to keep my life.”

“Seems dishonest,” Michael remarked.

“It’s called being pragmatic. Once Nero’s time is done and we have a true ruler, I’ll paint to the best of my ability. I don’t want such poor paintings being my legacy.”

“You may have fallen out of practice by then,” Michael said dryly.

“Oh, I doubt it. I’m still painting my own works- I just have to keep it secret.” He gasped suddenly, and Michael’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Lucifer grabbed his arm, turning to him in delight.

“You should see some of it,” he said excitedly. “Tell me what you think of it. I can’t really show anyone else- you promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Of course I won’t,” he said, rather alarmed. Lucifer took him by the hand again- with the hand that hadn’t touched the lion- and quickly led him through narrow roads, between buildings and alleyways until they were at his apartment again. He washed his hands quickly but thoroughly- Michael watched him, amused- and then he grabbed his hand once more, and they were off again, up three flights of stairs in the quiet, delightfully cold apartment. Michael’s eyes widened when he was led into Lucifer’s bedroom. It was large and neat, a cithara with golden flowers painted on it in a corner, a small pile of books on a low table. Lucifer pushed the table to the side.

“I finished it this morning, not long after I sent you the message,” he said, voice strained as he worked. “Wasn’t sure what time you were coming.” He straightened with a smile, and gripped the silken curtains the table had been pushed against.

“Wait,” he said, turning to look at Michael. He moved across lightly, so lightly Michael wondered if he was floating above the ground. Michael was thinking about telling him to get a new messenger if his had taken so long to reach him- but then Lucifer’s hands were on his waist and that thought escaped him.

His throat dried as Lucifer pulled him closer, stepping back in time with him but then standing still, still pulling until Michael was close, close enough to-

Lucifer let him go. He only needed to turn to grip the curtains, and he did. He threw them apart.

Michael felt as though the floor had been pulled from beneath his feet. The breath caught in his throat as Lucifer took a few steps to the side, letting him view the painting in all its-

Was glory the right word? The canvas towered far above him, and it depicted what he had been stupid enough to mistake for glory before he had ever touched a sword with his own hands. At first glance, anyway. On closer inspection this wasn’t what he had thought a glorious battle would be, back when he was still a boy. It was the messy reality of a desperate battle, once the initial formations had been lost and it became a matter of body counts instead of tactics. No clear sides, nothing but bloodshed and fear and determination to live rising above it all. He could hear the shouts and screams, feel and smell and taste the blood.

“Tell me what you think,” Lucifer said quietly.

Michael couldn’t look away, but he tried to bring himself back, ground himself in the sound of Lucifer’s voice and the knowledge that he was just there, a few steps away. He noticed that, for the third time that day, his hand was on the hilt of his sword.

“I brought a copy of Virgil’s _Aeneid_ with me, on my first round of military service,” he said quietly, once he felt he could talk without his voice shaking. “I hadn’t yet had time to read it… thought it would be a good opportunity. I read a little every night, while everyone else slept… I finished it before we had even arrived. I read it again when we were returning to Rome. It reads differently, the second time… the third, the fourth, the fifth time. However many times you read it before something that changes you so much… it will never be the same. Different words stand out.”

“Which words?" Lucifer asked in a whisper, stepping towards him.

“ _Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem_.” _Sorrow too deep to tell, your majesty, you order me to feel and tell once more._ He paused. “ _Bella, horrida bella.”_

Wars. Terrible wars.

He heard Lucifer’s breath catch in his throat. He heard Lucifer move closer, and then an arm slipped around his waist. A hand cupped his cheek and turned him away from the painting to look at him.

“You’re not there,” Lucifer said quietly, his thumb brushing across his cheek. “You’re here, Michael. With me.”

Looking at him this closely was like looking into the sun. He felt as though he was burning, and yet he couldn’t look away.

“With you,” he repeated.

Lucifer nodded. Then he lifted himself up on his toes and kissed him.

To say he was surprised wouldn’t be true, exactly, but it was unexpected. But not unwelcome- far from it. He held Lucifer as he kissed him back, hands on the soft fabric covering his hips.

The kiss went from sweet to heated in a short amount of time. Lucifer let go of him, tugging at his toga until it fell to the floor, sword clattering. Michael did the same to Lucifer, the heavy, expensive white tunic with cloth of gold woven through it hitting the floor unceremoniously. Not like either of them cared. Lucifer’s hands were back on him, slender fingers gripping the jut of his hips as he pushed him towards the bed.

Michael gripped his hair almost harshly as Lucifer fell on top of him, crushing the silken curls between his fingers. Lucifer’s lips moved from his mouth to his neck, where they remained for a while- until he tried to roll Michael over.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Michael cried, and he scrambled out from beneath him. “I’m a _General_. You’re- _you_ shouldn’t- _I_ should be the one-”

“You’re a General who hates war,” Lucifer said hotly. “I’m an artist whose patron is the most powerful man in the world. I think it’s clear who is the most powerful of the two of us.”

Michael opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Lucifer was flushed, a high colour in his cheeks and his hair a mess.

He didn’t want to argue with him. Not a stupid argument like this, one without an end. Rome was built on more than stone and blood- it was built on a social system so rigid that it reached into the most intimate of moments, making it impossible to shrug it off, to take the weaker and more passive role without feeling shame.

“I don’t want to argue with you,” Michael said simply.

Lucifer’s shoulders dropped. “Neither do I.”

He gave him a small smile as he stood, and planted a kiss into the mess of Lucifer’s hair. He crossed over to their clothes as Lucifer watched him.

He picked up Lucifer’s toga after his was back on, and walked back over to hold it out to him.

“Here,” he said. Lucifer didn’t reach for it- instead he just stared at his hand. Michael dropped it into his lap after a few moments, but Lucifer grabbed his hand.

“No,” he whispered, staring in horror. Michael suddenly realized what he was looking at and snatched his hand back quickly.

But it was too late. Lucifer had seen it.

“Oh, Michael… no, no,” he murmured, pressing a hand against his face. “I _knew_ there was something about you. Tell me you’re just collecting names there. Please.”

Michael rubbed his finger worriedly, pressing into the small carving in his skin Lucifer had seen. A small fish. A small moment of pain, necessary to gain access to the Christian meetings and masses in the bowels of the city, in the dead of night. Just once a month- more often would be too dangerous- when the moon was new and the sky was black.

“I won’t lie to you,” Michael said. Lucifer lifted his other hand to join the first in hiding his face. “I’m not just collecting names. Just… please, don’t tell.”

Lucifer snorted and stood, putting his toga back on. “Like I’d tell anyone. By the gods, Michael, how are you not dead already? They lit one of the Christians on fire a few nights ago. I could hardly sleep for the screams. It’s not a wise move to convert to a religion at the height of persecution.” He threw him an odd look. “How do you justify your loyalty to Nero? He’s the one overseeing all this bloodshed.”

“Exactly,” Michael said. Lucifer’s mouth fell open. He shook his head, swearing under his breath as he picked up his cithara.

“Look,” Michael continued. “I’m a General, right? A _General_. Loyal to Nero. The whole reason he doesn’t trust Christians is because they worship one God. Just one. He thinks that means there’s no room for any other loyalties.”

“Isn’t he right?” Lucifer muttered. Michael ignored him.

“When the time is right, I’ll have an impeccable record of loyalty in my service to him, as well as his trust. I’ll begin to suggest that he’s looking at this wrong- that Christians can be just as loyal to him as anyone else. And then I’ll tell him that _I’m_ a Christian, and that hasn’t made me any less loyal- _more_ loyal, really. My worship to one God leaves no room for worshipping money- my loyalty can’t be bought or sold. And that will make him see.”

“I see,” Lucifer said dryly, sitting by the window with the cithara in his lap. “And when exactly will the time be right?”

Michael faltered. He hadn’t considered that.

“When we’re no longer in the shadow of the Great Fire,” he said eventually.

“So never.”

Michael looked down. “It’s- I need more time to think this through.”

“That’s an understatement.” Lucifer began tuning the cithara expertly, eyes still on him. “I don’t think you’ve thought this through at all. You’re one mistake away from being burned to death, or torn apart by lions, or crucified.”

Michael swallowed. “I know.”

“So cover your hands until that damned cut heals up,” Lucifer snapped. “Build an altar to your God in your room. Make it look like an altar to Mars. Stop being so reckless.”

“You don’t understand.”

Lucifer laughed hollowly, fingers still working at the cithara. “I understand well enough, Michael. You didn’t survive battles to come home and be killed in your own city over something so small.”

Michael swallowed, then sat down beside him. Lucifer moved up so he could have more room- but not so far they wouldn’t be touching, he noticed with a hint of fondness.

“Your painting,” he said. “You could see what memories it brought back for me.”

Lucifer nodded, watching Michael’s nervous hands as he talked.

“I wasn’t made a General because I slaughtered people senselessly,” Michael began softly, half to make the tenderness of the subject clear, and half to keep himself safe from eavesdroppers. “I became a General because I worked hard on tactics and discipline. The more disciplined and tactical your army is, the more feared it becomes. Eventually people won’t want to fight. That’s less people killed in the long term… but still, people are killed. When I heard about the Christians, and what they believed in, I’d just come back from war. People greeted me like a hero. Wanted to hear how many enemies I’d killed. But the thing about enemies is when they’re kneeling in front of you, crying, begging for mercy in a language you don’t understand… you realize they’re not some… some monolith, some creature that could make Rome fall with their evildoings. They’re human. And Christians recognize this. They know you should love your enemy instead of mindlessly slaughter them. There can be no righteous murder or glorious war with Christianity. That’s their whole thing. That, and forgiveness. For whatever you’ve done.”

Lucifer put a hand on his knee. Michael covered it, fingers spread slightly so the cut showed. Lucifer rested his head against his shoulder.

They sat in silence for a while, the cithara forgotten on Lucifer’s knee. Michael turned his head and pressed his lips into his hair.

“If every man of Rome could stand on the battlefield and put Rome, and nations, and glory behind, there would be no worship of war,” he whispered. Lucifer squeezed his knee. “There would be no altars to Mars.”

Lucifer said nothing. Michael stood after a while. He knelt in front of him in the manner of a subject addressing a king.

“Thank you,” he said. “For promising not to tell.”

Lucifer gave him half a smile, reaching out to smooth his hair. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“I’ll understand if you never want to see me again,” he said. “You’re a high-profile man. Someone could try to condemn you too, if I ever get caught.”

Lucifer smirked, setting the cithara aside. He took Michael’s face into his hands, pressing a kiss on his forehead, his cheek, his lips. “I’ll be right behind you in the lion’s den,” he murmured, kissing his lips twice more before leaning back and reaching for the cithara. “Just promise to protect me.”

Michael grinned up at him. “So I haven’t messed everything up?”

Lucifer smiled at him fondly. “No, you haven’t.”

Michael caught his hand, kissing it lightly before standing. “Can I see you again, then?”

Lucifer squeezed his hand before it could fall away. He kissed it, smiling up at him. “Yes. Of course you can.”

Michael gave him a small bow, still smiling as he walked to the door. “Goodbye for now, then.”

“Goodbye,” Lucifer echoed. “For now.”

As he walked down the stairs and out onto the street, he could hear the cithara being played, the slender fingers that hand just been tangled in his own, pressing into his hips, working the strings in a manner so beautiful Terentius could only dream of achieving the same. He leaned against the wall as a Lucifer’s voice joined the music. A small piece of Greece planted in Rome. A small piece of heaven among the hell.

He walked home slowly as dusk painted the sky with reds and golds, the cithara echoing in his ears.


	3. Purgatorio revisited

_O dignitosa coscïenza, e netta,_

_come t'è picciol fallo amaro morso!_

_Vassene 'l tempo e l'uom non se n'avvede._

 

_*_

 

_(O conscience, upright and stainless, how bitter a sting to thee is little fault! Time moves and yet we do not notice it.)_

 

“Stay a little longer, Michael,” came the whispered words. Michael bowed his head.

“I can’t,” he replied in a low voice. He looked up, barely able to make out the faces through the shadows.

That was the point, he supposed. The number of people showing up to the monthly gatherings had been dwindling, and no one could be sure whether it was from fear or from being caught. Few were brave enough to get to know the people around them, knowing that to put one’s own name out in the open was to put oneself at risk.

It was something that Michael felt required to do. He would never be trusted otherwise. A nameless face wasn’t enough to grant him anonymity, even in Rome- he was both well-known and well-feared. Even with the fish carved on his finger and his name, face, and status bared, few were willing to step out of the shadows to exchange more than a few words.

Not that he could blame them.

“We won’t be long.” This came from someone else, a woman. She shifted towards the dim lamp’s light, her old eyes squinting at him. “No more than a quarter of an hour. We need to discuss the danger of infiltration.”

“There is a meeting tomorrow, early in the morning,” Michael explained.

He could hear people settling back into their seats. Just when they began to see him as a brother, he seemed to remind them that he was a soldier, too, loyal to Nero. He could feel the judging stare of the eyes he could not meet.

No one protested further. He shuffled out of the cramped room, tripping over someone crouched at the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” Michael mumbled- but the man snapped his head away to stare at the floor, refusing to look at him. His head was shrouded by the cloak of his hood. Many had spent their first few meetings that way, only taking them off when the paranoia wore thin or the heat was too stifling.

He took a long way home in his laymen clothes, avoiding the main streets that would lead him back quickly. As usual, he refused to glance behind him. It was not a crime to be outside, he reminded himself. Looking back would make him look suspicious.

There was no breakfast waiting for him the next morning as he rose with tired eyes. Terentius was still sleeping, preferring a later start to the day.

It had been a while since he had put on his armor. Some twisted part of him had missed the weight against his skin; had missed the feel of putting his sword in its sheath, letting it hit against his leg.

His only job was to protect Lucifer, as the other soldiers reminded him when he stepped out of his house in his armor one day, ready to walk to the Emperor’s palace. The Emperor was in an awful mood as of late, they had said, and would be in a worse one if Michael showed up. It would be best to do his duty and stay out of his way, for now.

But Lucifer hadn’t sent a message to him in weeks- not since their last encounter. He hadn’t requested another protector- Michael had explicitly asked the other soldiers. When he had asked, rather frustrated, if he should stay at home until he was sent for, they had agreed.

And so, he hadn’t had much of a chance to step out of his own home in weeks. Terentius bought food every few days- but as though he could sense the loneliness rolling off Michael, he didn’t meet his eyes when they encountered each other, taking his meals at different times.

There had been a meeting with Christians a few days after his encounter with Lucifer. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on a word that was said. He’d just rubbed at the carving on his finger and imagined Lucifer walking through the doorway, sitting beside him with clever whispered words and a smile.

After a week of sitting at home reading Homer, he began thinking about what he would say when Lucifer next sent for him. Maybe he would joke, say Lucifer _really_ needed a new messenger if this was how long his took to arrive.

Another week of reading Homer gave him dreams in the Homeric lands. Lucifer was far at sea, waving at him and shouting, his words lost to the winds. Michael would wade into the heaving sea with gritted teeth. He wouldn’t get far before the weight of his armor drowned him.

The moon waxed until it was full. He awoke from another Homeric dream (Lucifer appearing like a maddened Patroclus to his startled Achilles; when he reached to touch him, he laughed and bled fiercely wherever Michael’s fingers brushed) and didn’t dare attempt to sleep again that night. He watched the streets from his windows instead. A few drunks passed by. Guardsmen. More drunks. A baker in the early hours of the morning. And shadows dancing at the edge of his vision the entire time, never quite stepping out into the cold light of the moon to reveal themselves.

The moon waned. Soldiers stood outside his house one day, and he heard them talk of a meeting taking place the next day. Why they wouldn’t just come inside and tell him, he didn’t know. Perhaps they were angry at him for having his weekly pay brought to him while he did nothing for over a month.

It was time, he decided as he strode towards the Emperor’s palace. He would be worthy of his title and face his men- face their anger and jeering, if that was required. Rome had enough schemes as it was. Wherever his influenced stretched, he decided, there would be openness and honesty.

“Michael!” came a shout.

He hadn’t even reached the end of his road.

Two soldiers were jogging up to him, donned in armor. They were slightly breathless.

“Yes?”

“What are you- where are you going?”

“To the meeting. It’s at the palace, I presume?”

“The meeting?” one of them repeated with a startled look. “How-”

“It finished an hour ago,” the other said. “It- nothing of importance was said.”

Michael felt anger, that hot, tight ball of anger he had repressed for so long, swell.

“And no one thought to tell me what time it started?” he spat. The soldiers recoiled. “No one even thought to tell me it was _happening?”_

“Michael-”

“I know my men are angry,” he interrupted, not wanting to stop when he was in his flow. “I know that. I accept that. I accept that my Emperor is angry at me too, for reasons I don’t know. But- by the gods- understand that I will _not_ rot at home. I will not stride into the next meeting and have each of you transform into Brutus. I will not be Caesar.”

They were shocked. Michael was a little shocked too.

“Michael,” the one he had interrupted repeated. He spoke lowly. “We- no one is conspiring against you.”

“Then why have I been made a prisoner in my own home?” he asked. “Every time I leave there’s someone around the corner telling me I’m not needed. Tell me, now, both of you- _what_ is going on?”

“Nothing!” the same one cried. “The- Nero- he gave you one duty. It meant a lot to him that you carry it out.”

“The artist hasn’t sent for me for more than a month. Tell me- do I sit at home and wait forever?”

The soldiers exchanged a glance.

“Maybe you should go to him,” the second said. “I believe he’s out in his country house. The one you first went to when you were given the duty-”

“I remember.” Michael adjusted his cloak slightly higher, so the brilliant white wouldn’t drag in the dust. “I will. Good day to you both.”

He left them with a glare and turned, marching instead to Lucifer’s house.

What would he say when he saw Lucifer? What would _Lucifer_ say when he saw him? If he commanded him to leave at once, would his heart be able to bear it?

The walk was quicker than his previous walk had been. That had been solitary, his stomach filled with boredom and a touch of dread. He was nearly running now. The fear of rejection, of Lucifer laughing in his face, was far outweighed by the excitement he felt. He would see Lucifer either way. And anyway, even if he was rejected as his lover, he was still his protector. The promise of being near him was enough. Anything, _anything_ , was better than another day staring at the same walls.

The house’s cold temperature was a welcome relief when he finally arrived. He stood with sweat filming his neck, panting slightly from his walk.

He walked quickly through the silent house, shouting Lucifer’s name. He turned a corner, and by the gods, there he was, standing a few steps above him with an unreadable expression.

“Lucifer,” he breathed.

Lucifer watched him. He was reminded of Clytaemnestra- a knowing queen, watching with careful eyes as her husband returned from war, knowing she held his fate in her hands.

“Say something,” he begged. Lucifer remained where he was.

“What made you come now?” he asked. The cold in his voice pierced Michael to the heart.

“You hadn’t sent for me,” he explained. He thought about telling him about his anger, the soldiers- but no. Not now. “I was worried.”

Lucifer’s face creased in a frown. “I sent for you five times.”

Michael’s mouth dropped open. Then he laughed.

“Oh, Lucifer,” he said. “That messenger of yours. Not one of your messages came.”

Lucifer shook his head slowly, biting his lip. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“It’s a long walk,” Michael allowed, gesturing to the sweat covering his face. A drop fell to the floor.

“But I sent for you four times in the city. And then when the soldier said to come out here-”

“What?”

Lucifer waved a dismissive hand. “One of the guards you sent away came around one day, suggested my art is better when I’m out here- doesn’t matter. He brings me food so I don’t have to walk back to the city… I sent him for you, too. But you didn’t come.” Something in Lucifer’s stony expression twitched. “I thought…”

He didn’t need to say. Michael knew what he was thinking.

“Lucifer,” he said quietly. “Even if I… even if I didn’t want to return after what happened, I wouldn’t have a choice. I’ve been assigned to protect you. But I _did_ want to return. There’s been nothing, no one else on my mind as much as you.”

Lucifer walked down a few steps slowly, beckoning for him to move closer. He did. Lucifer reached out for him, the last few steps giving him a height advantage. He pulled Michael into a short, sweet kiss that tasted of honey and wine.

“I missed you,” he murmured against his lips. Michael smiled, winding a golden curl around his finger.

“I missed you too.” He kissed him again, and Lucifer stepped down another step to stand closer. He paused for a moment, and Lucifer’s lips hovered above his own uncertainly.

“I’ll be all that you want, Lucifer,” he said simply. “For as long as you want.”

 

*

 

Time seemed to pass more quickly in Lucifer’s home. A week passed that felt like no more than a day- and yet entire years seemed to be contained within it. Rain usurped the sun’s harsh reign one day, and Michael sat in the atrium with Lucifer laying between his legs, softly singing a hymn to Apollo as he strummed his lyre. They watched the rain drip through the hole in the roof.

Lucifer took him around his favorite place outside of Greece- his gardens. They lay in the grass, soil damp from the rain, and watched the red, dripping roses sway. He took him to his orchard the next day, trees creaking under the weight of figs. They picked some, and Lucifer gathered strawberries. He covered them in honey and gave a bowl to Michael that evening, singing a Sappho poem as he ate.

The day after that he showed Michael where the true genius of his art came through- he did not need a reference, or someone to pose. While Michael made bread the way his mother had taught him while his father had been away at war, Lucifer painted on the other side of the house. Michael saw it when he brought bread and wine to him that afternoon. He stared into his own face, doing as he had done the day before, reaching up high for a particularly ripe fig, the crimson robes Lucifer had given him to wear brushing the fallen leaves.

Lucifer grinned as he stood, transfixed by the unleashed beauty of his work.

That night Lucifer ate his bread as they sat again in the atrium, watching the star-studded velvet sky. He played the only thing he knew how to on the cithara- a hymn to the stars, which a fellow sleepless soldier had taught him on a long journey back to Rome.

For the first time in years, sleep was no longer a stranger, nor a captor he fought of for fear of nightmares. Lucifer would press against his back as he slept, honey-and-wine breath washing over the back of his neck; or Michael would press against his, soft curls brushing his face.

On his ninth day there they were in the atrium again, Lucifer’s favorite room. Michael read from a book of poems while Lucifer painted a mural on the wall- a pair of laced hands in a field of roses. He had told Michael the night before he wanted the whole room swimming in painted roses.

He was so startled when a man ran into the room that it took him a few moments to realize who it was. It was only when Lucifer had yelped in the surprise and the man had fell to his knees, coughing and spluttering, that he recognized him.

“It’s alright,” he reassured Lucifer, who looked at him with wide eyes. “I think he needs water- it’s _alright,_ ” he repeated, seeing his expression. “I know him.”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow but tore off, white robes flying out behind him.

He knelt by Terentius, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Dear gods,” he murmured as Terentius hacked away. “Are you alright? Did you run here from the city?”

Terentius nodded. When the coughing subsided he simply stared at Michael, breathing heavily.

“Who is he?” Lucifer asked as he came back with water. He passed it to Michael before backing up against the wall, staring distrustfully at Terentius.

“My friend,” Michael said, passing him the cup. He drank deeply.

“What does he want? Is he okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Terentius managed as he set aside the cup. “Michael- Michael, you’ve been so good to me, and I so terrible to you… I need to do this for you.”

Lucifer dashed towards them both, pulling Michael off the ground and out of Terentius’ reach quickly.

“I don’t want him to hurt you,” he said lowly when Michael looked at him questioningly.

“Terentius,” Michael said firmly, Lucifer clutching his arm. “What’s going on? What do you mean?”

“I…” He looked down to the floor. Michael could see his eyes close. “They swore they’d cut my tongue out if I spoke a word to you. Make me a slave again- the mines this time, not at the loom. They said I’d be dead in a month.”

“Who?”

“The soldiers,” Terentius said, and fear stabbed Michael’s heart. He heard Lucifer’s breath catch in his throat.

“But- why? What is it you couldn’t tell me?”

Terentius looked up at them with wide, scared eyes.

“Michael,” he said in a strangled voice. “Nero is dead. Killed by his own sword- or so I’ve heard.”

Michael looked at him wordlessly.

“ _Sic semper tyrannis,”_ Lucifer muttered quietly. Michael ignored him.

“There’s a new Emperor now. The soldiers didn’t want you to know what was happening- they told me to give you no reason to step foot out the door, and not to tell you anything. They knew you’d stand for Nero. And now he’s dead, they…”

Terentius bowed his head in prayer.

“They’re saying you’re one of them.”

“A soldier?” Michael asked, confused.

Lucifer swore softly, realizing before he did.

“A Christian.”

His mouth fell open, yet he had no words to say.

“And a traitor to Rome. They- they burned a whole group of them today. Fifty, maybe more.”

“There were only twenty of us.”

Terentius blinked, eyes flickering to Lucifer briefly. “It’s- so it’s true?”

“Yes,” Michael said. Lucifer swore loudly this time. “It’s true.”

Terentius shook his head slowly. “I… it doesn’t matter to me. There’s three soldiers on their way here. I set off before them, and I ran. You should have some time.”

“Thank you,” Michael said, and stepped out of Lucifer’s hold to offer him a hand to stand. “Now go. Walk a long way, through the fields.”

“He betrayed you!” Lucifer protested. Terentius paid him no mind. He gave a small but unmistakable bow in Michael’s direction before setting off, walking quickly.

“Michael-”

“Those scheming, treacherous, weak excuses for soldiers,” he said pleasantly as he walked. “I should have known. I said it, to their faces- ‘I will not be Caesar.’ Those bastards. Where did you put my armor?” he asked, glancing behind him as Lucifer followed.

“In the room with the olive oil. Michael, we have to leave.” Lucifer grabbed his arm and made him face him. His blue eyes were blazing. “Now.”

Michael smiled, shook his head. He kissed Lucifer’s forehead. “No, we don’t.” He turned and began to walk again.

Lucifer followed, having to leap every few steps to keep up with him. “Don’t treat me like a fucking _child_ , Michael. And stop being such an idiot. We need to go _now_ if we want to avoid-”

“You can leave if you want.” Michael let his crimson robes fall to the floor in one fluid movement as he reached the olive oil room. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Lucifer gaped at him.

“Stop- stop being so fucking _weird._ Come on. You think you can fight three of them off?”

“I most certainly could, if I wanted to.” Michael began to put on his armor, pulling the blood-red tunic over his head. “But no. I’ll die a soldier’s death.”

Lucifer slapped him. It didn’t hurt him as much as it shocked him. He lifted a hand to his burning cheek, looking at him in surprise.

“What was that for?” he asked mildly, reaching for his chest plate.

“For you,” Lucifer said, and when he looked up, he was taken aback by the tears on his face. “I love you. You know I do, I’ve said it before. Don’t- don’t let this be the last time.”

He crossed over to him, and Lucifer flinched as though he expected a slap in return. Michael just pulled him in close.

“My god was a criminal in his own lands, Lucifer. It was only a matter of time before I joined him.” He moved away, leaving Lucifer looking crestfallen. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“I’ll never forgive you if you let yourself die.”

Michael paused. That stung him more than the slap had.

“Try to,” was all he said in return, before resuming. Lucifer groaned, pacing back and forth as Michael dressed calmly. He’d seen death many times, delivered by his own sword and by his command. Death didn’t scare him. Delivering it was the hard part.

The moment he fastened the white cloak around his neck he began to walk to the entrance of the house. Lucifer ran after him and grabbed him to turn him once more.

“Michael,” he said fiercely. “You won’t die a soldier’s death. You’ll die a traitor’s death. They’ll bury your name- they’ll bury everything you’ve ever done. They’ll do that whether they find you here or not. You can either die shamefully, violently, cruelly- or leave with me.” He took his hand. “Now.”

Lucifer’s eyes- the sad mix of fear and hope- hurt to look into. So he looked away.

“I shall die unavenged, but I shall die,” he said solemnly. “Thus, thus, I gladly go below to shadow.”

Lucifer dragged him back as he tried to move. “Stop quoting Virgil,” he spat. “Just act like a _human_ , Michael. _Please._ ”

Michael just smiled sadly.

“They know who I am,” he said softly. “They know that _they_ are Rome’s traitors, not me. Dying for loyalty to my God and my Emperor isn’t a bad death at all.” He went to turn again, and this time Lucifer let him. He stood outside the house, Lucifer a few steps behind him. He watched as three distant figures drew closer.

The sunlight glinted on his armor. He raised his face to the sun.

This would be what he remembered as they lit him on fire. What soft light felt like. What roses and soil smelt like after the rain. The taste of fresh, ripe figs. How Lucifer’s lips felt when they pressed against his own.

He opened his eyes as they drew closer. His hand was far from his sword.

He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! I'm going on holiday shortly, and while I'll try to finish this before I leave I'm not sure whether I can get it finished or not, because I don't want to rush it (and I don't think I can take my laptop). Either way, I have the next story for these two planned- it won't be a part of the series though, and will be quite different in tone. If anyone has a suggestion for another era they would like to see them in though, I would be glad to hear it :)


	4. Inferno

_Nessun maggior dolore_

_Che ricordarsi del tempo felice_

_Nella miseria_

 

_*_

 

_There is no greater sorrow than to be mindful of the happy times in misery._

 

“ _Proditor_ ,” one of the soldiers said as they approached. _Traitor._ Michael’s eyebrows twitched. They were seasoned soldiers- he knew one of them well. Aelius. They had fought battles together. The others were younger, and he knew them by sight alone.

“You know the truth,” he said once they were closer. “You know that I’m not the traitor here.”

They came to a stop before Michael, keeping a healthy distance. He knew what they were thinking- who would dress in armor just to hand themselves over peacefully?

“I won’t fight you,” he said in a clear voice. They watched him distrustfully. Aelius flickered his eyes to Lucifer.

“Good,” Aelius said. “We’ll have to tie your hands as we walk back. Just as a precaution.”

Michael gave him a nod. He would hold his head high as he marched onwards, ever onwards.

Except this would just be a march to Rome, and it would be there that everything came to an end. He drew his breath sharply as it hit him. Lucifer was right- he wouldn’t die a soldier’s death. Even if there was one person who felt admiration at him walking in with his head held high as he marched to death, there would be a thousand others who watched with hatred. To the city wasn’t the only path he could have taken- there had been another. One with Lucifer.

Who knew what life they could have had.

He stepped towards them, one of the other soldiers taking the soft cloth that had been pinned to his cloak. He held it out for Michael’s hands. It was dyed a deep, royal purple. Even the deaths of traitor-generals had to have some pomp and ceremony, apparently.

He glanced back. Lucifer’s face was wet with silent tears, eyes pleading. His heart panged.

The soldier with the cloth- Seneca, he remembered with a jolt- began binding his shaking hands loosely, his own hands fumbling with the cloth. Michael stood patiently, face not betraying the fear he felt.

“Sorry, General,” Seneca said softly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I doubt the cloth will hurt as much as the flames, no matter how tightly you tie it,” Michael said dryly.

“Give over,” Aelius spat. “The bribe was more than these boys would have made in a decade. We don’t all come from aristocratic families.”

Michael laughed softly, remembering his mother’s tired eyes. “Including me.”

Seneca finished his terrible knot- really, Michael could just pull it apart- and looked up to Aelius. The third soldier said nothing, looking at Michael hatefully.

Aelius grimaced at him as he laid a hand on his shoulder. “Okay. Now him.”

“What?”

Aelius didn’t reply. The third soldier made his way to Lucifer, who recoiled in shock.

“You’re not the only one named as a traitor, Michael.” Aelius watched him carefully. “If your loyalty is in doubt, our new Emperor is taking that to mean there is no loyalty at all.”

“But he hates Nero,” Michael protested as the third soldier began to tie a cloth- this one undyed- around Lucifer’s hands. Lucifer’s mouth was open in horror. “There’s no reason-”

“They’re the orders.”

The third soldier wasn’t quite as gentle as Seneca. Michael could see the delicate skin of Lucifer’s slender hands redden where the rough cloth rubbed against it. He shoved him towards them, and as Michael’s hands came up to catch Lucifer the purple cloth slipped from his wrists to the floor. He tugged Lucifer behind him quickly, facing the soldiers.

“This is a mistake,” Michael said desperately, hearing Lucifer’s ragged, terrified breaths. “He’s not even a Christian, he hates Nero-”

“He’s a threat, so long as he remembers how well Nero paid him,” the third soldier said. He picked up the purple cloth that Aelius and Seneca had stood watching with wary eyes. “And he’s a fraud.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Lucifer asked sharply, terror forgotten for a moment.

“We raided his city house,” Aelius explained to Michael. “Found some works of a completely different standard to his own in there, clearly done by someone else.”

Lucifer made an odd noise, a strangled mixture of a sob and a laugh. Michael closed his eyes, imagining them tearing through his house. He hoped they hadn’t slashed the paintings or broke the cithara.

“Two houses not good enough for you? How much were you planning to ask for those stolen paintings?” the third soldier asked Lucifer tauntingly. He jerked Michael’s hand towards him harshly, wrapping the purple cloth around his wrist. “Maybe we should do it here. Liars and _cinaedus_ shouldn’t be burned next to even the worst General.”

He tensed. He could hear Lucifer’s breath catch at the insult. _Cinaedus-_ a harsh insult indeed, referring to a man who took the passive role in relations with other men. Without knowing it, the third soldier had blundered into that pressure point, sensitive to them both.

He didn’t know that, of course. “Move,” he said to Michael, hand reaching for his sword.

Michael’s hand reached his own first. That burned part of his heart- the one he had told himself was gone, dead, ashes- burst into flame once more. It roared with new life as his sword entered the man’s throat.

He saw Aelius’s eyes widen, saw him take a few steps back as the man fell to the floor, and Michael took his arm back, blood splattered on his hand. They stared at each other- _what now, General?_ his eyes seemed to say, because Michael had just changed the rules of this game they were playing.

He turned to see that Seneca had grabbed Lucifer. The boy-soldier’s eyes were wide and terrified.

“Michael,” Lucifer whispered as a knife was brought to his throat.

Michael froze. Seneca was what he thought. Nothing more than an idiot boy.

But this idiot boy had a knife pressed to Lucifer’s throat. His Lucifer, untainted by war, and blood, and fire. Lucifer, whose wild eyes darting to the body of the third soldier made him think this was the first death he had witnessed. Perhaps he had taken Michael too literally when they had talked that second day. Maybe he didn’t think him capable of such violence.

Lucifer, who knew all he had done but had kissed him anyway, pressing his lips on every inch of his body until the oil of the lamps had burned away. Lucifer, who knew all he had done, and all he had not done, but loved him anyway.

“Have we ever fought together, Seneca?” he asked wearily. The boy’s eyes widened at hearing his name. Michael hoped he had already received the bribe money from the new Emperor, and had given it to his family.

“No, General.” His voice was touched with awe.

“I thought not.” His hand tensed on his sword. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be so stupid.”

He launched at him with no further warning, taking the dangerous path with his sword and moving it up Lucifer’s chest. It clanged with Seneca’s knife. He threw it off with some effort, feeling a softer impact as he did.

He almost threw Lucifer to the side, away from Aelius- there was no time to be gentle.

Seneca put up a weak fight with the sword he had barely managed to unsheathe in time. He shouted whenever their swords clashed, trying to advance. Michael didn’t let him, wanting to stay in the way of Aelius, should he try to get to Lucifer.

He knew Seneca had fought a few battles before, battles Michael had sent him to, but no one fought like Michael. Each blow was strong, impossibly fast, hardly any time between each hit. Seneca may have fared better in a battle, with all those sleepless nights spent dwelling on his situation- but he had gone into the fight without time to consider what he had to lose. Michael knew. His life was on the line. More than that. Lucifer’s was, too.

It was almost a mistake. Another swipe of his sword, as strong and fast as those that came before- Michael didn’t tire easily.

But Seneca did. His throat opened, spraying Michael with blood. He fell.

His mouth was open with shock. He could taste the blood- some had sprayed into his mouth, and he almost choked on the bitter taste.

Lucifer seemed frozen to the spot, dragging in his breaths. Michael had cut his chin when he had forced Seneca’s knife from his throat. A small, shallow cut. Nothing compared to what it could have been.

He sheathed his sword and reached forward with a knife to cut away the cloth binding his hands. Lucifer let him, not flinching away. He didn’t even seem scared of having Michael’s knife so close. He just looked at him, something close to awe on his face.

Aelius had said nothing. When Michael finally turned, he had his sword in his hand, resting loosely at his side.

“I stood in the crowd while your wife was buried,” Michael reminded him, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Don’t let her children become orphans today.”

Aelius swallowed. He bowed his head in a nod, throwing his sword towards them before kneeling slowly.

“Troy would not have fallen, had you been there to fight for them,” he said. Lucifer moved forward, standing next to him. “Achilles would have sooner wept than face you in battle. I forget that, sometimes. Now I remember. Emperor Galba should have sent an army to fetch you, not three men.”

“I would have gone with you willingly if you had only come for me.”

Aelius just smiled, not without a hint of sadness.

“How long until someone else comes?” Lucifer asked. Aelius looked at him.

“A while. Maybe three days. Michael’s a high priority, but…” he shrugged. “Not the highest. There’s a lot happening.”

He wished he could tell whether Aelius was lying or not. There could be more soldiers on the way and they wouldn’t know.

“If we go, will you follow us?” Michael asked. “Would you tell them, when they come for you, where we have gone?”

Lucifer’s head snapped to look at him, eyes wide.

“I just watched two men die, Michael. If you grant me mercy, my lips are sealed.”

Michael chewed on his lip. He turned to Lucifer, whose eyes were wide and bright with hope.

 _Still._ Even after watching him commit such acts, the thought of leaving with Michael still filled him with hope, not disgust or fear.

“Get something to tie him up with,” Michael said softly. “Put a chair in the atrium. We can tie him there.”

Lucifer nodded, setting off at a run. Michael untied the purple cloth from around his right hand.

“Do you have any other weapons?” he asked Aelius, who nodded and took out two more knives. One was thin and small, the knife of a traitor, easily concealed. The other was larger and better made, a good hunting knife. Michael took it and left the other.

He tied the man’s hands together in a clever knot- it would only hurt if he tried to struggle out of it. Lucifer was already in the atrium when they entered, piling cloth by the chair. They tied him down together, passing the cloth from one side of him to another. Michael’s hands brushed Lucifer’s, who froze, staring at the smear of wet blood on his hand. His eyes darted up to Michael’s briefly before they continued.

They left Aelius there. Michael washed the blood from his hands and some that had splashed on his face before changing into one of Lucifer’s togas, the expensive material heavy on his shoulders. Lucifer darted about, gathering money, bread, putting on a different pair of shoes. Michael just watched him.

“Where are we going?”

“Greece,” was Lucifer’s easy response.

“How quickly can we get there?”

“It might take some time,” Lucifer called as he emptied the dregs from a wineskin. Michael placed the knife carefully in the bag. “A few days walking, though you’re used to that. I have an old acquaintance in Rimini, a ship captain. I could call in a favor with him, get him to take us to Greece. Somewhere in the North, and from there we go to Athens.” He looked up. “Do you like boats?”

“They’re alright. Athens might not be the best idea. Is there somewhere else we can go? Somewhere quieter- like woods, or mountains?”

Lucifer snorted. “Are you asking me if there are mountains in Greece?”

Michael returned his easy smile. He made it sound so simple, like leaving everything behind to escape execution was a casual decision. Then again, returning to Greece would be returning home for him.

“How long will it take us?”

“We should be there in a week, if there’s a ship available quickly.”

“It would probably be a good idea to stay off the main roads, too,” Michael added.

They passed through the atrium silently. Aelius lifted his head to watch them, but he said nothing. Michael filled the wineskin with the rainwater that had fallen through the hole in the roof to the shallow pool beneath it. He pushed it against Aelius’ lips, who drank deeply, knowing it could be some time before he drank again. Then he filled it again and reached for Lucifer’s outstretched hand.

They walked around the bodies outside, and for a moment Michael’s heart felt like it would seize up. Then Lucifer squeezed his hand, and the memories that had begun to fill his mind’s eye were swept away.

They walked through the fields, vaguely following the direction of the roads. Walking was hard work, made somewhat better by wearing Lucifer’s toga instead of heavy armor. Lucifer hummed quietly as they walked, fingers moving as though he was playing a ghost lyre.

They walked until dusk fell and Lucifer began tripping over his own feet. They ate some of the bread slowly, leaving half for the next day. If they weren’t close by then, Lucifer said, they could stop in the next town they came across and buy some more. It wouldn’t be as good a loaf as the one they had, Michael knew, closing his eyes as he ate. Lucifer had joined him as he followed his mother’s recipe, drizzling some honey into the dough.

They lay next to each other in the soft grass at the edge of a field. The heat of the day still hung in the air, but a cool breeze blew across their cheeks. Lucifer tangled their fingers together, pressing close to him. They hadn’t talked much as they’d walked. They didn’t need to. He knew that Lucifer was as scared as he was, as shocked as he was. He knew he was probably thinking of the Emperor Michael had served and he had hated, lying dead somewhere. He was probably thinking of the two other bodies Michael had thrown to the jaws of death. As elegant fingers traced his palms, his fingers, his wrists, he wondered what Lucifer was thinking.

“It’s a shame you don’t worship the same gods as me,” he whispered, fingers skating along the hills and valleys of his muscled arms. “They would have loved you.”

Michael made a small noise. He didn’t doubt him. Those gods loved war and death, and he always seemed to find both.

Cool lips pressed against his cheek in the dark, and then the side of his mouth. Lucifer kissed him softly, rolling so he was on top of him, chests pressed together.

“When you moved, it was like watching you dance,” Lucifer murmured against his lips. Michael drew his face away, struggling to see his face in the dim starlight.

“That dance killed two men.” He swallowed as Lucifer reached for his left hand, the hand that had held the sword that had ended those two lives, and many more beside. “Two hearts have stopped. Two mothers are left without their son. Because of me, Lucifer.”

Lucifer just kissed his hand, the hand he had washed wet blood from just hours before. He kissed the fingers, the palm, the wrist.

“It wasn’t mindless slaughter,” he said. “You were protecting me, Michael. You said it yourself. You would have gone with them if they were just there for you.”

He bit his lip as he remembered earlier that day, the soldiers standing in the burning heat.

_They’re the orders._

He wrapped his arms around Lucifer protectively.

“So stop beating yourself up,” Lucifer said, lips pressing to his neck. Michael closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away on the wave of Lucifer, Lucifer, _Lucifer._

They washed themselves in a nearby stream the next morning, washing the dirt from their feet before setting off once more. The fields were quiet around them. No one came running to shout at them for trespassing. No soldiers jumped from the trees, brandishing their swords. They saw slaves working in the distance at one point, but that was all. It was like the world was holding its breath.

Michael carried the leather bag, switching it from shoulder to shoulder as the strap dug into his skin. Aelius’ knife, the rest of the bread, the wineskin, their money. That was all they had.

Well. They had each other too.

“Your paintings,” he said as they walked silently. Lucifer didn’t reply for a few moments, looking straight ahead.

“My paintings,” he said eventually, with more than a hint of sadness. He didn’t bring it up again.

Lucifer would run ahead every so often as he stuck to his soldier’s march. He found an apple grove near a lake that day, and they ate the stolen apples greedily in the shade.

“Do you think it’s as hot here as Rome?” he asked Lucifer as they sat amongst the apple cores, stomachs filled with the sweet fruit and the crisp lake water.

Lucifer paused, absentmindedly licking the apple juice from around his lips. He touched the small scab on his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe a touch cooler,” he said, packing more apples into their bag. “We are moving northwards, after all.”

They ate more apples the next time they stopped, and the rest of the bread. They stopped before sundown this time, planning to wake earlier so they could cover ground in the colder morning air. They kissed again, lips sticky and sweet with apple juice.

They reached Rimini the next day, as the sun left the sky with streaks of red and gold. Lucifer grinned, triumphant, as they neared the city.

He wanted to sleep outside the city, out of sight. “Rumor is the swiftest of evils,” he’d reminded Lucifer solemnly. But Lucifer was insistent on finding an inn, and so they had, sleeping in a dusty room that was a world away from the trees and grass they’d slept in the past two nights.

They left to find bread and the ship captain in the morning. They found him drinking ale by the docks, and Lucifer left Michael to admire the bright lemons and oranges a merchant was selling while Lucifer haggled with him quietly. Michael saw him shake his head as the captain looked over.

“You know I don’t like army men on my boat,” he said to Lucifer, who spoke quietly and desperately.

But the captain shook his head, and Lucifer came back looking dejected.

It was later that day as they queued for bread that a man came over to them, young and slim-hipped.

“I heard you talking to that old captain,” was his introduction as he offered his hand for them to shake. “I’m not going that far south, but I can take you to Pula.”

Pula. Michael grimaced. It was pretty much straight across the sea, closer by boat than Rome.

“You can sail to Greece from there,” the young man said quickly, seeing Michael’s face. “I have a friend who makes the journey quite often.”

That sounded better. He met Lucifer’s eyes, and they both nodded.

“That’s kind of you to offer,” Michael said cautiously, hand on their coin purse. They would need money to get from Pula to Greece, too. “How much?”

“No money at all,” the man said, holding up his hands. “The honor of having you on my ship is more than enough payment.”

Michael blinked. Lucifer gave a small shrug. Neither could tell who he meant. Maybe he’d seen some of Lucifer’s paintings.

“When do we sail?” Lucifer asked.

“In five days. Early morning.” He pointed to a ship. “That one’s mine. Will I see you there?”

“You will,” Michael said, and they shook hands again.

“Odd man,” Lucifer commented later that day, as they sought shade from the sun in their inn room. They’d bought wine and olive oil to go with their bread, and the rest of their stolen apples.

“I’m not complaining,” Michael said, tearing up the bread and dipping it in oil. “Free is the best price to pay.”

Lucifer fell asleep easily that night, curled against Michael. Michael had his eyes closed, his hand in Lucifer’s hair, but he did not sleep. He tried to imagine the musty sheets below him were damp soil, and that above him roses reached for the sky, instead of the low ceiling he would see if he opened his eyes. It was almost morning before he managed to sleep.

Without the lyre or the cithara, there wasn’t much to do. Michael didn’t want to go far outside their room. Each passing day meant it was more likely that word had spread and that soldiers would be patrolling the streets. He paid the innkeeper for food, and when Lucifer went to buy checkers so they wouldn’t die of boredom, he waited anxiously for him to return. Time crawled by, and the day before they were due to sail he rubbed dirt from the floor into their togas to dim their colour, not wanting either of them to call attention to themselves. Lucifer just rolled his eyes as he watched him, drawing in the dirt with his finger.

The young ship captain had made a majestic seat for them, silk thrown over cushions, shaded with heavy white sheets. He guided them to it with delight, an oarsman fetching them grapes and wine. Lucifer, well-versed in the art of accepting gifts, just smiled and sat down. He leaned against Michael while the oarsmen worked silently in the heat and the other passengers stared.

Michael stood from their regal seat to watch the sea, gripping the edge as he leaned over. He didn’t usually get seasick, but the combination of the sweetened wine, overly ripe grapes, sweltering heat, and heaving water brought him close. The boat tore the silken waves apart as they sailed through. He looked to where the captain was, suddenly desperate to ask him why they were being treated like landed gods. But the man was busy sailing, laughing and joking with his crew. He was a good-looking man, Michael thought. He wondered what he was doing, sailing the seas instead of finding a wife, starting a family.

Maybe for the same reasons he hadn’t.

He returned to Lucifer, who was lying across the sheets. He opened his arms to receive him as Michael approached, and Michael lay next to him, falling asleep quickly in the warm.

The captain came to wake them up some time later, grinning and squinting in the sun. “We’ve arrived,” he said, offering Michael and then Lucifer a hand to stand. Michael glanced at the city as they approached, appraising the crowd of people that haggled and bartered with the merchants at their stalls. His heart sank as he saw crimson cloaks and helmets glinting in the sun.

A small group of soldiers stood near the dock.

Lucifer saw too, swallowing loudly as the captain left them to pull into the dock.

“It’s not unusual,” he said lowly to Michael. “There’s no way they’re here because… they frequent docks quite a lot. Right?”

Michael nodded. They would have to sneak around them, but they would be safe.

The captain pulled on rope with his large, friendly grin, sweeping his dark hair from his eyes. He beckoned them forward.

“Go and find an inn,” he told them as he hopped out, holding out his arm for Lucifer. “I’ll come and fetch you once I find my friend.”

Michael’s mouth was dry as he climbed out with the captain’s help. He was wearing Lucifer’s clothes- no reason for someone to look at him twice. “Thank you, captain. Really.”

The captain had already hopped back into the ship, not bothering to help the other passengers struggle out. Lucifer was tugging at him, pulling them away from the docks.

“What was that?” the captain called, his cheerful voice carrying on the hot summer air.

“I said thank you,” Michael called back. The captain gave something of a salute.

“No problem, General!”

The nearby soldiers looked up at that, eyes narrowing in on the captain. Then to Lucifer.

Then to Michael.

With a shout they ran towards them, and Michael reached for a sword that wasn’t there.

“ _Run!_ ” Michael shouted at Lucifer, pushing him away hard. Lucifer stumbled, and then was bowled over by one of the soldiers. The other three went at Michael, forcing him to the ground with his hands behind his back.

The soldiers were shouting, the captain yelling, a baby crying in its mother’s arms. Michael was screaming as the soldier forced Lucifer’s face to the ground, scratching and breaking the skin. He thrashed around, trying to escape, trying to grab the knife from the fallen bag and kill the man who dared hurt his Lucifer.

But the soldiers were heavy on top of him, binding his arms and legs quickly. Two stood to placate the captain and his crew, who had run off the boat to defend him. The third kept pushing him down, face turned to the side, staring into Lucifer’s terrified eyes.

They were locked in an Amphitheatre cell overnight, tied to separate ends. He could hear Lucifer breathing, short, quick, scared, and an occasional roar somewhere nearby.

They didn’t talk. They didn’t sleep, either. Michael felt a foot brush lightly against his own partway through the night. He couldn’t speak- his chest felt too tight. He lay down instead, stretching his own legs so he could brush them against Lucifer’s. He thought about the awful smell of a burning body, the screams. He wondered whether that would be a better fate than what awaited them.

He thought about that dead lion they’d came across in the street, the old body with strong muscles underneath. He thought about the strength of the jaw, the long, sharp claws, the sharper teeth.

It felt like a thousand years ago.

The sun rose the next morning, its very presence insulting. Nothing should be able to continue so casually when the world was about to end.

Lucifer’s eyes were wet with tears, face pale and scratched. Michael hadn’t heard him crying in the night. Maybe he’d fallen asleep for a while. Vague dreams of death and blood and a yearning for the quiet life in Greece that they would never have.

“Will they give you a sword?” Lucifer asked in a whisper. Michael closed his eyes. He could hear crowds talking and laughing as they entered the seats above them. Only the nearby guards could see them.

“I doubt it.”

They were the final act. He could hear the screams of other criminals in the Amphitheatre, loud and stomach-churning as they were torn apart. Older, slower lions were walked passed their cell, blood dried beneath their claws and around their mouths.

His chest felt tighter.

They came for them eventually, soldiers he didn’t recognize, but who wore the same uniform he had nevertheless. They kept his arms tightly bound, and Michael wondered if they were just being careful or whether Aelius had already spread the tale of him killing those two soldiers.

The soldiers left Lucifer as he was, in his stained toga, eyes wide with fear. Michael stared them down as they put a heavy helmet on him and wrapped a red cloak around him. It was cheap, and dirty, and wasn’t a general’s cloak, but it would excite the crowd.

It was only once they pushed up to the arena that they cut the ropes from their arms. He rubbed the red marks the ropes had left before looking at Lucifer.

There wasn’t a lot to say in a situation like this. Lucifer knew it too. Despite their situation, and despite the crowds roaring for their blood as their ‘crimes’ were announced, Lucifer smirked.

“Got any Virgil quotes?”

Michael couldn’t return the smile. “ _Semper honos nomenque tuum laudesque manebunt,_ Lucifer.”

_Your honor, your name, your praise will live forever._

Lucifer’s smile wavered. Michael knew he was thinking of those paintings back in the city. Would some liar try to claim them as their own? Slash their hands so they be asked to prove it, to recreate that unearthly beauty? Or would they be destroyed?

There was nothing they could do about it now. The Emperor’s seat was empty. A quick death without much ceremony- dragging it on for too long would give people the chance to question whether their executions were justified.

“Same for you, General,” Lucifer said. Then, “kiss me.”

Michael paid no mind to the crowds, or to the soldier unbolting the door to the lion’s den. He leant down and kissed him, blood-red cloak swinging around them both. Lucifer locked his hands around his neck, mouth as desperate as his own.

“Stand behind me,” he said once they broke away, and Lucifer did just that. He kept a light hand on Michael’s shoulder as they turned to face the den.

Michael steeled himself, moving into something of a crouch. His hands were up, fingers spread as though the lion was simply going to throw him something he could catch. He could see the carving of the fish on the inside of his fingers, deeply cut.

As the soldier waited for a nod, he felt behind him. Checking if Lucifer was still there. Wishing he wasn’t.

“I love you,” he said, because as last words went, they weren’t a bad choice.

He heard the catch in Lucifer’s throat as the door swung open.

“I love you, too,” came the answer. His voice trembled a little, but the hand on his shoulder remained steady.

Michael heard a roar. He breathed out, long and steady, and braced himself for the final battle.

 


End file.
